Chapter 7
Louis
The hotel room door clicks shut behind us, and I lean against it for a second, breathing through my nose.
The bus to the Calgary airport was a nightmare.
Every little bump felt like a hot poker through my chest, but then the pain meds must have kicked in, because I don’t remember much of the thirty-minute flight or even the bus ride from the Edmonton airport to our hotel.
Tanner drops both our bags on the luggage rack and turns to look at me. His blue eyes assess me like he’s reading stats off a spreadsheet.
“Doc gave me some meds for you while you were conked out. You can take them as needed for pain, but the anti-swelling ones you gotta take every four hours,” he says.
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rougher than I want. “Got it.”
“Okay. Good.” He moves past me toward the bathroom, flipping on the lights as he goes. “You need to get out of those clothes and into bed. Can you manage?”
“I’m fine, I got it,” I say automatically, pushing off the door.
I take two steps toward the bed, and my left side screams in protest. I stop, gritting my teeth, and Tanner’s already back in front of me.
“Lou. Come on. You’re not fine.” His voice is quiet and steady, his eyebrows furrowed with concern. “Let me help you.”
Okay, he’s right. I’m pretty far from fine at the moment. And I’m so fucking tired of pretending I am.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “Okay.”
He nods once, then moves in close. The scent of clean sweat, the soap from the rink in Calgary, and something underneath that’s all him fills my nose.
My heart kicks up, which is stupid. The guy’s helping me get undressed for bed because I’m too fucked-up to do it myself, not because sexytime is coming up.
Except the way he’s looking at me with all that focused intensity kind of makes my stomach flip.
“Let’s get your hoodie off first,” he says. His fingers find the zipper pull at my chest. “I’m going to unzip this slow, okay? Tell me if it’s too much.”
I nod.
He pulls the zipper down, the teeth separating with a soft zzzzip. I try to help him by shrugging out of the jacket, but even moving my so-called good side sends a wave of pain across my chest that cuts right through the medication haze. I freeze, letting out a hiss of pain.
Tanner stops for a moment to give me a reproachful look. “Stay still, idiot. Just let me fucking do this for you, okay?”
I nod, finally giving in and letting him help me.
His knuckles brush against the fabric of my T-shirt, his hand warm even through the cotton. There’s light blond stubble beginning to shadow his jaw. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
Once the hoodie is off, he tosses it onto the bed, then flicks his gaze to my sweatpants. “You’re not gonna want to sleep in those.”
My face heats. “I’ll do it, it’s fine.”
“Nope. Come on. Pants off, Bing!” He grins at me.
My jaw drops. “Wait, wait. Did you just make a joke? A Friends quote, no less?”
He shrugs. “My mom used to watch Friends all the time when I was a kid. I pretty much know all the good lines. That one seemed to fit.”
I snort a laugh as Tanner hooks his fingers into the waistband of my sweats.
“Yeah, but weren’t Monica and Chandler trying to get pregnant in that scene? She wanted his pants off because they were about to fuck?”
He shrugs. “Whatever. I didn’t analyze the full transcript before I said it.” He rolls his eyes. “See, this is why I don’t joke. It never lands right.” He immediately reverts back to his usual, no-nonsense self, like he hadn’t even tried to be funny.
“No, it was good,” I argue. “It was funny, I swear. I was just surprised. You, uh… you don’t usually joke around much.”
He’s slowly working my sweatpants over my hips, like he’s taking care to be gentle with me, even though my injury is in my upper body. He crouches down in front of me as he drags them down my legs. This is the second time today Tanner Sinclair has been on his knees in front of me.
His movements are efficient, like he’s trying to be clinical, but there’s something almost reverent about the way he’s touching me. Like he’d rather do anything—like take ten minutes to get my pants off—rather than hurt me. Like he cares about me.
I realize through my slightly medicated haze that his face is only inches from my cock. The only thing between us is the thin layer of cotton from my boxer briefs. And my traitorous dick twitches.
The sweats pool around my ankles, and I step out of them, quickly taking a step back, hoping like hell he didn’t notice the movement in my underwear.
He grabs the pants and glances up at me. And holy fuck, are his pupils dilated? Is he… Fuck, is he turned on?”
“How’s that? Okay?” he asks, getting to his feet.
“Yeah,” I reply, still trying to process that look on his face.
He nods, then glances at the bed behind me. “You’re not gonna be able to lie flat. It’s gonna pull on your chest. Hold on.”
He crosses to the other bed and starts grabbing all the pillows, even the decorative ones, and the extra blanket folded at the foot of the bed, leaving only one for himself.
He comes back to my bed, pulls back the covers, and proceeds to arrange the mountain of bedding until he’s built a ramp that’ll let me sleep half-sitting up.
“Try that,” he says.
I get into bed, letting myself sink back into the nest he’s built. The angle takes the pressure off my chest, and for the first time since the injury, I can take a breath without pain shooting through my ribs.
“Oh, fuck,” I breathe in relief. “That’s… yeah. That’s good.”
His mouth quirks in a small, satisfied smile. “Good.”
He moves to the nightstand and grabs the little bottle of water the hotel left. He twists the cap off and hands it to me. “Drink.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“I don’t care. You need to stay hydrated, or the meds will wreck your stomach.”
I take the bottle and drink, because arguing seems like a lot of work. The water is cool, and I drain half of it.
Tanner goes to his bag and grabs the pill bottles Doc Kendall must have given him for me. He sets them next to the water. “You can take another pain pill in about an hour if you need it, but you gotta take the anti-inflammatory in about an hour. I’ll set an alarm.”
I blink at him. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
He’s standing next to the bed, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, and I realize I’m staring at him.
The pain meds have turned everything soft and hazy, and I can’t quite figure out why Tanner Sinclair, the guy who wants my job, the guy I’ve been low-key resenting for weeks, is here, taking care of me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re good at this,” I say. The words come out a little slurred. “Like… really good. Why are you so good at this?”
Something flickers across his face. For a second, I think he’s going to brush me off, give me some nonanswer and change the subject. But then he sits down on the edge of my bed, careful not to jostle me, and looks at his hands.
“My mom traveled a lot for work when I was a kid,” he says quietly.
“Sales job for a paper company.” He chuckles.
“Think Dunder-Mifflin, but a lot less funny. I stayed with my grandparents mostly, but when I was fourteen, my grandpa had his first heart attack. My grandma had to take care of him, so I helped. Learned how to manage his meds, set up his recliner so he could sleep sitting up, all that.”
I stare at him. I didn’t know any of that. I didn’t know anything about Tanner’s life before hockey. I assumed he was like the rest of us—some small-town kid who lived and breathed the game.
“He okay now?” I ask.
“Yeah. He’s tough. Made it through two more after that one.” His mouth curves up in a faint smile. “Stubborn old bastard. Kind of like you.”
I huff a laugh, and it pulls at my chest, making me wince. “Fuck. Don’t make me laugh.”
“Sorry.” He stands, and the smile fades. “You should sleep. You look like hell.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. But he’s right. I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open.
He crosses to the other bed and sits, pulling off his shoes and then getting up to put everything away neatly.
His shoes are perfectly lined up, and his suit hangs neatly in the closet.
He slips into the bathroom for a few minutes, and when he comes out, he pulls his e-reader out of his bag before sliding into bed.
That’s weird. It’s late, and Tanner Sinclair is usually a fanatic about getting enough sleep.
The mattress creaks as he stretches out.
“Sinc,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“You don’t have to babysit me.”
He turns his head to look at me, and in the dim light from the bedside lamp, his eyes are dark and serious.
“I know,” he says again. “Your next dosage is in forty-five minutes. You should get some rest.”
But he doesn’t put down his tablet.
I close my eyes, letting myself sink into the pillows, into the hazy warmth of the pain medication, and the weirdly comforting feeling of having Tanner Sinclair in my corner.
My last thought before I finally let myself drift off is that for the first time in a while, I don’t feel so alone.
The buzzing phone pulls me out of deep sleep. I surface slowly, like I’m swimming through molasses, my brain foggy and my mouth dry as hell.
“Lou.” Tanner’s voice is close. “Hey. Time for your meds.”
I crack my eyes open. The room is dark except for the faint glow from the bedside lamp Tanner must’ve left on. He’s standing next to my bed, holding a glass of water and the pill bottles, his hair sticking up like he’s been running his hands through it.
“What time is it?” My voice comes out rough, scratchy.
“Little after two.” He shakes out two pills into his palm. “Anti-inflammatory and another pain pill to stay ahead of it. Doc said you need to stay on schedule.”
I take the pills and wash them down with the water he hands me. The cold liquid feels good on my throat. When I hand the glass back, our fingers brush, and I’m too out of it to care that my heart does a stupid little skip.